THE QUEEN had such a nice time in Canada, which is not surprising, since Canada’s entire self-image is founded on niceness. No other state, with the exception of the Vatican, is so acutely aware of its reputation for morality and modesty. Even the national anthem, Oh, Canada, seems oddly self-effacing compared with the triumphalism of other countries. “What is that big lump of snow and rock above America?” “Oh, Canada.”

But now it has been claimed that Canada is both less boring and not nearly as nice as we had assumed. Behind its honest, decent, dull image, Canada, it seems, is tainted by corruption and hypocrisy, just like the rest of the world. Last week The New York Times published an article entitled “Was Canada Just Too Good to Be True?” in which Clifford Krauss claimed that the country has a history of unkindness to Indians, furry animals, children and trees, pointing out that the country produces huge quantities of nuclear waste, culls baby seals, and has been slow to compensate indigenous Canadian children forced into brutal residential schools. The unkindest cut of all was suggesting that Canadians, in spite of claims to ecological purity, chop down more trees per capita than any other industrialised country save Finland and Sweden.

What makes such charges doubly irritating to Canadians is that they come from America, Canada’s squabbling, overbearing big brother. Canada has always defined itself in contrast to the powerful behemoth to the south: Canada is nice only in so far as America is perceived to be nasty; it is tedious only in as much as America considers itself more interesting. The self-definition passes in both directions: America’s image of itself as a tough, no-nonsense nation is, in part, in contrast to the worthier, gentler and weaker nation to the north. Americans are often nettled by Canada’s assumption of virtue, and take every opportunity to burst the bubble by mocking Canadians as sanctimonous, fur-clad clods, with a weird accent and second rate-sports teams. If Canada is such a fine place, wonder the more jingoistic Americans, how come famous citizens such as Mike Myers, Joni Mitchell and Jim Carrey all headed south?

Much was made, in America, of the threats by liberal Americans to move to Canada if George Bush won the election. As far as I know, none went, despite the attractions, which were listed by one US columnist as: “Good beer. Cheap Viagra. Hardly any crime. Friendly, if somewhat ineffectual, people. Terrific, if underappreciated, novelists . . . and secure borders, courtesy of the US Department of Defense.”

Canadians are acutely aware of the American stereotype, describing themselves defensively in contrast to it. A recent popular Canadian beer advertisement featured a young Canadian declaring: “Hey, I am not a lumberjack or fur trader, and I don’t live in an igloo or eat blubber or own a dog sled . . . I believe in peacekeeping, not policing; diversity, not assimilation; and that the beaver is a truly proud and noble animal. My name is Joe, and I am Canadian!” Joe, whose real name was Jeff Douglas, became an overnight media star in Canada as a result of the commercial. So he moved to Los Angeles.

There is only one other pair of neighbouring countries in the world that define themselves so emphatically in contrast to one another: France and Britain. As with Canada and the US, this rivalry is also seen as a zero-sum game. France’s loss is perceived across the Channel as Britain’s gain, hence the smugness with which news of France’s turmoil over the EU referendum has been reported in this country. Every survey showing that the French are the best lovers in Europe receives mocking yet envious play in the British media. While a recent poll showing that the rest of Europe sees the French as rude, carnal, snobbish and unhygienic was seized on by Britain’s press as revealed truth.

Conversely, British success is seen as a signal for renewed Gallic soul-searching and self-flagellation. There has been a serious outbreak of this recently, with French commentators comparing the two countries’ economic records to the detriment of France. “Why the British are better than us” announced a headline in the weekly Nouvel Observateur, without meaning it for a moment. “The Channel remains a gulf that no tunnel can cross,” declared the columnist Claude Imbert in Le Point. He added, through audibly gritted teeth: “To those French who still believe that Britain is a former Norman colony that went wrong, the British have replied by colonising Normandy with their second homes. In short, for the time being, Albion is more to be envied than pitied.”

In our thoroughly globalised world, the US and Canada, France and Britain, cling anachronistically to their singular, ancient rivalries. Australia and New Zealand look further afield than each other for economic comparisons; Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan do not expend energy anxiously surveying their respective sex lives. But the English Channel and the US border with Canada remain the distorting, two-way mirrors through which these neighbours perceive themselves.

Somewhere in the bowels of Brussels a fledgeling commissar of political correctness is no doubt preparing to issue a diktat declaring the trade in insults between Britain and France illegal. But once one goes beyond the hoary national stereotypes, the long, gritty friction in the Anglo-French and US-Canadian relationships has helped to forge the basis of national character. In this respect, these nations are like siblings, constantly squabbling, measuring themselves in competition, each working out its individuality. Thus emerges Canada, the good daughter, but inclined to primness, alongside America, the headstrong and over-achieving younger son; and on the other side of the world there is France, passionate and proud, locked in a permanent amicable tussle with Britain, responsible and solid but inclined to lecture.

Sibling rivalries, as everyone knows, produce strong characters. Whenever Canada becomes too pious, there is America to bring her down a peg; when America goes too far, the moral weight of Canada bears down. If France starts throwing a hissy fit, Britain is the first to toss a bucket of water over her, but then France is always on hand to puncture British pomposity. That is what siblings are for. And if France and Britain ever tire of squabbling, there are plenty of little brothers and sisters to pick on together. Starting with Belgium.

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